


Afterglow

by CaptainSaku



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Nudity, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSaku/pseuds/CaptainSaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war against the Reapers is over. More than a year has passed, she is done with rehab, and they can finally catch a break. They are on leave, and they can rest easy.</p>
<p>Picture of a quiet moment at the end of a busy day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterglow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KSilverland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KSilverland/gifts).



> This time, it is not the product of a meme! (confetti)
> 
> Introducing Kai Marcell Shepard, although she is never mentioned by name. I wrote this for a precious, dear friend, and the best Alpha and writing partner I could have ever asked for. Love you, dear, you're the best <3
> 
> This fic... has been in the works for months, if not at least a year. My inspiration and writing fuel ran out before I could write the "epilogue," and nothing I tried ever seemed good enough. Until now. I am glad to finally be able to put this up and confidently say that I am happy with the results.

It’s snowing outside. Snowflakes drift slowly down to the ground, bright against the dark night sky, illuminated by the warm light coming from the window. A sudden breeze blows, and the snowflakes follow, a flurry of white swirling in the wind, before resuming their downwards trajectory to join so many others of their kind in piling heaps of snow.

Inside, two skiing jackets, damp from the day’s activities, hang from their respective chairs. The log cabin is quiet, the only sound that of a fire crackling in the hearth. It is past midnight, and the remains of dinner lay scattered on the floor around a thick fur rug. They are accompanied by two empty glass flutes and what is left of two bottles of white wine. 

The rug, cleverly placed in front of the fireplace, is currently occupied by two figures surrounded by an assortment of cushions and covered to the waist by several blankets. It’s been a long day, but an enjoyable one. 

For once, nobody’s rushing them. Nobody’s telling them what to do, or where to go, or who to talk to next. The weight of the galaxy no longer rests on their shoulders and, after everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve _lived_ through, they can finally catch a break. They have time, and time is exactly what they are taking. No more quick kisses behind terminals, no more hurried words and stolen moments as they wait for what is to come. Just the two of them, alone in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere, with time to spare and a million ways to spend it together. 

Tonight, their lovemaking was slow and gentle, in stark and evident contrast to the heated, passionate, almost desperate sessions they used to have. Tonight, they savored each moment, reveled in each other’s presence, got lost in the mixed smell of gun oil and metal, earth and musk, vanilla and spice. Tonight, they were thrilled to find that the feeling of skin on plates and plates on skin was still delightfully alien to them, that they had still not gotten used to soft lips on hard plates and probably never would. Tonight, in short, was a night of exploration and rediscovery and falling in love all over again. 

If there is a heaven, then they are pretty sure they have found it, here in this log cabin, lying together on a white fur rug on the floor, a tangled mess of blankets and limbs. The firelight dances on their exposed skin, casting playful shadows all around them and keeping them warm. 

He’s on his back, resting against a pile of cushions, his legs tangled with hers under the heavy blankets they have procured from their room. Her head rests on his chest, as does one of her hands. They wear matching smiles, warm and loving and perhaps a little bit goofy, the aftermath of two bottles of wine and getting further drunk on each other. The silence is broken only occasionally, with a soft sigh here, a tiny laugh there. They are in love and they have time, time to _waste_ , and it’s the most wonderful thing in the world. 

It’s almost like time has stopped for them, right here and now, in this small and cozy cabin where nobody can find them, nobody can _disturb_ them. Somewhere where snow-capped mountains and the sounds of nature are their only company, somewhere where they can take it slow, have fun and, for the first time in many years, not have to worry about anyone that’s not themselves. 

This is exactly what they had never let themselves dream of, for fear that it might never come true. Because life had shown them that a tomorrow without the other was more than a possibility, or that tomorrow, for them, may never come at all. Their stars had lined up impeccably to deal them a hand that read death all over and somehow, miraculously, they had drawn the one card that was their saving grace. Impending doom is no longer written all over their future; it has come and gone and been left in the past, with more trying times and enough unshed tears to drown in, enough unspoken words to fill several books. They can rest easy now; tomorrow _will_ come, for both of them. 

Five fingers twine with three and her eyelids droop as his free digits comb slowly, almost lazily, through her hair. She shifts and presses closer, seeking his natural body heat in her half-drunk sleepiness, then releases a contented sigh and lets her eyes drift shut once more. His mandibles flick in endearment. He loves her. He can say it now, and he will repeat it over and over until she gets tired of hearing it, if that day ever comes at all. He’s making up for all the times he had wanted to say the words and couldn’t, for all the times that they got caught in his throat and were replaced with something less terrifying instead. He loves her, and he fully intends to spend the next century with her at his side, if she will have him. For now, however, he will close his eyes too and join her in his dreams. 

 

* * *

He wakes and it’s cold. The fire in the hearth is long gone, extinguished as the night wore on and the flames consumed the logs they used for fuel. Only a few embers remain, glowing faintly red in a bed of pale ash.

Something’s amiss, and it takes him a second to realize, through the haze of his thoughts, that it’s the fact that she’s not at his side. He feels, more than sees, a shadow pass by his eyes, and he lets out a muted, groggy groan before opening them. 

There she is, silhouetted against the bright morning light. It seems to him that his life has been graced with an angel, and he wonders with the knowledge that she is here to stay. 

Her body is bare. It is freezing cold and she hasn’t even bothered to cover herself, and that is how he knows she will soon be back in “bed” with him. His eyes follow her figure, captivated, and he watches as she retrieves a log to revive the fire and invite warmth back into the room. His hero. He never did like the cold.

He burrows deeper into the blankets and waits in silence, awed at this beautiful creature that he can now call his bondmate, his future wife. Reality is now beyond his wildest dreams, and it occurs to him, for the billionth time in a handful of days, that he is one lucky turian. 

It isn’t long before she rejoins him, and he can’t help a noise of protest as her cold body finds his warm one. She giggles– _giggles_ –and steals a placating kiss, the goosebumps on her skin slowly smoothing out as she regains her warmth.

They share a look, and that is all it takes for them to know they won’t be moving any time soon. Because they are warm, and they are comfortable, and they can _afford_ to. 

Perhaps they will fall back asleep. Or perhaps they won’t, and they will remain as they are, snug in each other’s arms, basking in the first rays of the morning sun and the warmth of a fire with renewed life breathed into it. They can have a lazy morning, now. They can have all the lazy mornings they want, in fact. And this morning, to them, feels like a lazy kind of morning, so they will remain in comfortable silence and enjoy what can only be defined as the afterglow of a perfect night burning dimly in the morning, just as the embers of the fire of the previous night had glowed in the hearth when he had first opened his eyes.


End file.
